By Areaze Jiuare
Sometimes a man drags the darkness behind him and still believes it’s the darkness that’s chasing him.
Bogovid Nebeški inhaled through his nose. Morning smelled like wet concrete, old asphalt, and piss that had given up on evaporating. Sunlight ricocheted off glass towers, filtered through plane trees, lit up steam and the slick mouths of sewer grates. The sidewalk slid under his feet - polished concrete scarred with fossilized gum, cigarette butts, and paper in various stages of surrender.
His legs remembered the route. His mind did not remember much of anything.
It was around 7:30. The day was just beginning to pretend it had a purpose.
He descended into the metro, scanned his card, passed the gates, and rode another set of stairs down to the platform. Empty. Benches untouched. No people. Next train: 3 minutes, announced the glowing sign. He didn’t sit. Since flexible hours had been introduced, urgency had quietly gone extinct.
Cold air kissed his face. The train surfaced from the tunnel and stopped with surgical precision. The doors opened directly in front of him.
Inside: an empty car.
He stayed standing, though he had seven stops ahead. Positioned himself opposite the info screen, fingers barely grazing the pole. Bogovid liked balancing against inertia when the train accelerated—liked testing whether his body still obeyed physics. The pole was a courtesy, not a necessity.
The train stopped at empty stations. Doors stayed shut - no one pressed the red button. Still, every stop brought a whisper of fresher air. Or maybe that was a lie his senses told him to feel less alone.
His thoughts drifted. There was nothing to see outside. Nothing inside, either. He tried to remember something amusing from his life. Nothing surfaced. It felt as if his entire past had faded out, like an old reel burning to white.
As if it had happened to someone else.
Now there was only this: him, alone, in a subway car that felt too large.
The emptiness gave way to childhood images, then slid further back. He remembered a story his mother used to tell - before his birth, or maybe when he was an infant; the distinction had blurred.
His father, Svetozar Nebeški, once invited friends for lunch. Wanted to impress them. He chose flambéed beef medallions. The meat was perfect. For the flame, he used gasoline.
There was no internet then. He had seen meat being doused and set on fire somewhere, but didn’t know with what. Gasoline seemed reasonable.
Bogovid smiled. Then laughed. Then laughed louder, imagining his parents’ friends chewing meat soaked in petroleum, nodding politely, pretending pleasure. He was alone. He could laugh. Cry. Scream.
He farted.
Then giggled uncontrollably.
Gasoline and medallions. Genius.
The walk from the metro to the office passed through a park, a few side streets, and then the corporate plaza. He used to like the birds. Now there were none. Leaves rustled occasionally. That was all. The business district felt embalmed.
He bought cigarettes from a vending machine.
Five a day. No more.
Mostly.
He unwrapped a cigarette, stepped in dog shit, lit up, inhaled, wiped his shoe on the lawn while walking. Clean again by the entrance. Card to reader. Glass gate slid open.
No guard. Of course not.
He entered the elevator, cigarette still burning. On the screen: luxury apartments and a melody with no face, no spine. Elevator music. He hated not the tune, but its creator. Imagined a human who had learned harmony, theory, history - suffered exams - only to end here.
Did I do better?
The thought made him shiver.
He extinguished the cigarette in the restroom, washed his hands, and entered the office. His workstation glowed: dozens of charts, graphs, and tables in pinks and blues. He hadn’t locked the screen. There was no point.
The colors offended him now. Feminine. Yesterday, he’d spent an hour selecting them. Now they looked wrong. Incorrect. It would take two hours to undo the damage.
The office was empty. Same as yesterday. Same as always.
He opened his schedule. Planned six months in advance. Completed tasks updated income automatically. Accounting no longer existed. Humans had been removed from the loop.
Two hours. Five color schemes. None acceptable.
He went to the kitchen and took a sandwich from the fridge. A note inside read: Todor. He didn’t remember writing it. But no one else would leave food here. Probably.
He sat by the glass wall overlooking the park. The sky was blue again. The daytime moon hovered just above the tallest building.
He froze.
The sandwich waited.
He wanted to see the moment the moon detached from the building’s edge.
Why don’t we feel motion?
Why this speed of perception?
Could consciousness be slowed enough to feel the moon move?
He closed his eyes. Imagined his body dissolving, cell by cell. Slowing. A vortex formed inside him, strengthening. A current rippled through his muscles. His hands shook.
He opened his eyes.
Nothing.
The moon stayed put. It always moved only when you weren’t looking.
He bit the sandwich. Thought about gray color palettes. Too retro. Like a corporate obituary. Still - salary deposits mattered.
Back to colors.
An hour later, he sat alone in the HR director’s office. A notification had summoned him. These were for serious incidents. Near-fights. Verbal bloodshed.
None today.
He wandered the office, opening drawers. Office junk. Paper clips. Forms. Condoms. Photos from the team-building day.
Smiling faces. Balloons. Ropes.
Composing elevator music now felt like a jackpot compared to inventing team-building exercises.
He wasn’t in any of the photos. He never attended. Everything about them felt rehearsed.
He closed the drawer with his hip.
Why the notification?
***
Jasorija Nebeški sat on the edge of the chair, foot tapping without permission. She never imagined this. But it had gone too far.
Bogovid sat beside her, eyes fixed on nothing. She had dragged him here.
Vedrana entered, sat across from them, opened her notebook, and clicked her pen.
“So,” she said, smiling professionally. “What do we have?”
“Talk to him,” Jasorija said. “You’ll see.”
“Briefly?”
Jasorija hesitated, then spoke.
“It started two weeks ago. He ignored me. Questions, comments - nothing. Like I wasn’t there. He used to play that game with children. Pretend not to see them. It was harmless. But now… either the game never ended, or something happened to his...”
She tapped her temple.
“His company called again today. They want him to take time off. Another incident. Three, actually. He entered with a cigarette. Ate someone else’s sandwich. Then, during the meeting, he behaved like this. Like he was alone. He went through the HR manager’s drawers. Took personal items. Left without speaking.”
Vedrana’s pulse quickened. This was new. No delusions. No new language. No trauma.
A diamond.
“And work?”
“Oh, he delivers everything. On time. Perfectly.”
“Any injury? Trauma?”
“No.”
Bogovid stood, walked to the window, and stared out. Smiled briefly.
***
The day ended monotonously.
At home, the TV showed empty cities. Nature without animals. Weather forecasts. Anxiety rose. He went outside. Wandered.
An overturned trash bin annoyed him, as always. He didn’t fix it. He never did.
He stopped before a building. Just one. The entrance doors felt inviting. Warm. Different.
An invisible hand pulled him forward.
Inside, the elevator took him to the third floor. A hallway. Left. A few steps. Wooden doors.
PSYCHOLOGIST
He entered without knocking.
Books everywhere. Chaotic. Calming.
He sat. Tried to read titles. Letters at wrong angles. Why does the mind distort angled text? He imagined rotating them. Pain bloomed behind his eyes.
He went to the window. Streetlights flickered on like hesitant stars.
He should leave.
“Good evening, Vedrana,” he said softly, hand on the handle.
Her diploma hung beside the door.
The two women exchanged a look.
“Good evening,” Vedrana replied.
“I need to catch him,” Jasorija said, already standing.
And she followed him out.